


Decomposition Of The Soul

by hiddenhibernian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Department of Mysteries, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenhibernian/pseuds/hiddenhibernian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all prisoners serve out their sentence in Azkaban. Some are sent to the Department of Mysteries, and their fate is one of the most closely guarded secrets of the wizarding world. Unfortunately, Draco is about to find out just how far Hermione Granger is willing to go for the greater good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decomposition Of The Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Prompt #38 Some prisoners have always ended up in the Department of Mysteries rather than Azkaban
> 
> S, thank you very much for being my beta for this. Your comments made for a much better story.

* * *

He'd expected a window. It was the view that took him by surprise: a tree covered in pink blossoms in a neat little courtyard, framed by three brick walls with large windows. Draco tried to peer through the glass to whatever was on the other side, but all he could see was the reflection of his own wall. 

Either they were playing games with him – which could not be ruled out – or he'd been brought somewhere else. He wasn't foolish enough to hope he'd been given a reprieve. If this wasn't Azkaban, it would no doubt prove to be worse. 

“Right, then.” A brisk voice heralded the arrival of a middle-aged wizard, dressed in dark red robes clashing violently with the bits of his beard that were still ginger. “Let's get you settled in. Here's your bed– ” A flick of his wand revealed a sturdy mahogany piece, complete with inviting white sheets. Draco looked at it with acute suspicion. 

“A chair, perhaps?” the unknown wizard asked, producing a winged armchair. As an afterthought he added a chest of drawers, a shelf and a washbasin. “Mustn't forget the necessities, eh?” 

Draco was finally moved to reveal his ignorance. There didn't seem to be much to gain by pretending to understand what was going on. 

“What am I doing here?” he asked. “Where are we, anyway?” 

“In the Department of Mysteries, of course” the wizard said promptly. “As to your purpose here, I believe that will be determined in time. We're not quite sure ourselves, yet.”

* * *

While they figured out what to do with him, Draco tried to get used to not being haunted by Dementors while shivering in the relentless cold of the North Sea. He was under no illusions of the ultimate unpleasantness of his fate, but there was no use taking it out in advance, was there? 

When someone knocked on his door it sent his heart racing and his mouth invariably went dry, but so far they hadn't asked him to do anything worse than testing spells. 

He was even allowed to use a wand. Under strictly controlled circumstances, of course, but still. The grey-haired witch who collected him from his room didn't let her gaze leave him for a second before they reached the airy hall where he was handed a slender walnut want with intricate carvings. It seemed very old, but as soon as he touched the wand the familiar tingle of magic made him feel alive again. He'd sent sparks flying in the air, just like at Ollivander's so many years ago. 

The witch had waited until Draco remembered he wasn't eleven anymore, and then she had explained what he needed to do. Even Longbottom would have got the hang of it after the first five times. They must be testing a new spell for Ministry approval – otherwise he could think of no reason why they'd get him to repeat the same spell three-hundred times every morning. 

Draco didn't mind the monotony, or his aching elbow. He knew it could be much worse.

* * *

Usually the corridors were empty, except for the occasional portrait. The route looked slightly different every day, as if Hogwarts wasn't the only place where walls moved of their own accord. Occasionally Draco caught a glimpse of Ministry employees hurrying past, but it was never anyone he recognised – not even the wizard he'd met the first day. 

Not until he ran into Hermione Granger. 

She'd been making her way down the hall with long, mannish strides, her robes flapping. Behind her trailed a pile of reference books and a teacup, miraculously staying upright despite its bouncing progress. Draco was still trying to decide whether it would be demeaning to flatten himself against the wall to avoid detection when something furry escaped from her pocket. 

Granger dove after it and almost collided with his escort. “So sorry,” she said breathlessly while trying to wrestle the little orange kitten in her hands back into her pocket. “He will insist on coming out at the most inconvenient –“ Then she noticed him. 

“Draco Malfoy,” she said blankly, like she didn't know what to say. She looked like she'd been hit by a Bludger, but she wasn't surprised. She must have known he was at the Department of Mysteries, but mustn't have expected to actually run into him. 

Draco made a mock bow in an attempt to make her as uncomfortable as possible before the witch accompanying him made a tiny movement in the direction they'd been going. 

Granger seemed to register it straight away: “Yes, of course, Amanda. You must be going,” she mumbled, absentmindedly patting the pocket she'd stowed the kitten back into. “Where – ?” she asked vaguely, but the other witch seemed to understand her well enough. 

“414,” she answered in her dry, precise voice. It was the exact same voice she used when instructing Draco to tilt his wand hand an infinitesimal amount further to the right. 

“Right,” Granger said, and that was that. 

Except it wasn't, because that afternoon she showed up at his door. A knock at the wrong hour spooked Draco, and he greeted Granger icily to conceal the fright she'd given him. 

“Come to sneer? It must be quite the treat for you, to be able to rub it in my face at last. All good things come to those who wait.” 

“You must know I wouldn't do that,” she said, and with a sinking feeling Draco realised that he did. His latest misfortunes must have brought him so far down that he now ranged as one of her causes, Gods help him. 

“I don't need your – your benevolence, Granger,” he warned her. “I'm not a house-elf, and I won't be pitied.” 

There was an odd look in her eyes as she inspected his room, and, lastly, its occupant. 

“It never made sense to me,” she told him. “Why would you risk it, after Harry got you off after the war? You were never particularly stupid, I'll give you that.” 

He kept his cool: the last thing he wanted Hermione Granger to do was to start investigating his case. The consequences may have been far more calamitous than he'd expected, but his motive hadn't changed. If she started questioning things, it would all have been in vain. 

Finally she gave up her scrutiny. Draco's relief was short-lived, however, as Granger proceeded to make conversation: about the weather in the courtyard outside and about the books that had appeared in the little bookshelf next to his chair. When she ran out of smalltalk she bid him goodbye, but he learnt to expect her knock in the coming weeks. She didn't come every day, and he hated how it kept him on tenterhooks, wondering if she'd come by.

* * *

The spells kept him going until May, when the grey-haired witch suddenly stopped turning up. After three days stuck in his room, Draco considered _asking_ for something to do: anything would be better than this intolerable tedium. Later he'd be aghast at his own naivety, but at that point being bored to death seemed a realistic prospect. 

The familiar, jaunty knock had been absent for a few days – not unheard of, but still unusual – and he was fool enough to actually be smiling at the Bushy-Haired One as she stuck her head through his door. 

“Hello? Mind if I come in?” She'd never asked before, and his sharp eyes noticed the way her knuckles were turning white, clinging on to her wand. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes, and her deplorable hair looked like it was considering independence. 

“Not at all. Please enter my humble abode,” he said from his chair, pointedly refusing to make any flourishing gestures to accompany his words. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled and shuffled in, closing the door behind her. Draco's curiosity intensified. Either her cat had died (or Weasley had broken up with her), or it was something to do with him that bothered her. He tried to shake off the lethargy he'd sunken into after days of idleness – he'd need his wits about him now. 

“How are you getting on?” she asked, as if she couldn't think of anything better to say. It didn't sound like a real question, which probably was fair enough considering that he was stuck in a room smaller than his closet at home. 

“Splendidly. I've come up with a thirteenth use of dragon's blood, and yesterday afternoon I threw a cocktail party for all my friends. You should have been there.”

She rolled her eyes at that, and silently conjured a chair to sit on rather than plonking herself on his bed like she normally did. 

“You know I work here,” she said, and Draco had to restrain himself from pointing out this was the most obvious statement since Godric Gryffindor pointed out that Scotland gets cold in the winter. “I've been working on a project,” Granger continued, eyes fixed on her wand which was tracing little circles on her thigh. She was wearing Muggle clothes today, something blue and tight-fitting. It almost looked indecent to Draco, who quickly turned his gaze away. “About memories,” she added. 

The silence sat heavy between them, as Draco considered all the questions he didn't want to know the answer to. Eventually, Granger ploughed on: “I applied for a test subject years ago, and today I found out my request had been granted.” 

Draco stared at the window. He wasn't going to make this any easier for her. 

“I will – “ She swallowed loudly. “I've been given permission to use Legilimency to extract your memories, to study the impact of missing memories on the brain.” 

Draco would have given anything for a wand right now, so he could give the bitch what was coming to her. “You're going to steal my memories, one by one, and watch me turning into a gibbering wreck. To the victor, the spoils, eh? So much for your fine morals, then.” 

Granger's voice was shaking, but she did reply: “You will be helping people. Like the Longbottoms, remember them?” 

“I was only a baby when they were attacked. Is this your idea of justice, to visit the iniquity of the dead on the living?” 

“What about my parents, then? I had to hide them from you and all the other idiots who couldn't wait to pledge their allegiance to Voldemort, and now they can't even remember who I am.” There was an undignified sniff, as if she was fighting to hold back her tears, but her voice was steady and clear. 

“I'm not responsible for your mistakes,” Draco said, pressing on before she could turn an indignant breath into a torrent of self-justification. “Do you really think this is a fair punishment?' 

“It's not up to me to decide,” she replied. There was a quiver to her voice and he could have pressed home his advantage, but it suddenly occurred to Draco that he had far more important things to do than arguing the limits of justice with Granger. 

Responsible; now, that was an odd word to have picked. He was responsible for both more and less than she could imagine. Realistically, Draco had no way of preventing Hermione Granger from turning him inside out and laying what was in his head bare for everyone to see. Trying not to imagine the effects of depleting his memories until there were none left, he forced himself to consider the key issue at stake he still could influence. He simply couldn't allow Granger to spoil his plans. 

Summoning all the Malfoy haughtiness he could command, he looked her in the eyes for the first time since she'd told him what was going to happen to him: “Swear to me, Granger. Swear that you won't reveal what's in my memories, not to a single soul.” His voice was hoarse; he hadn't intended it that way, but clearing his throat would be a sign of weakness. She looked uncertain. 

“You owe me,” he pressed. Draco knew she'd see it that way: Hermione Granger's morals were almost painfully transparent. 

“I suppose I do,” she sighed. “I take it you want an Unbreakable Vow?” 

“That would be preferable.” The relief almost made him forget what he hadn't yet considered: that regardless of what secrets he managed to keep, there would be no Draco Malfoy at the end of this.

* * *

Granger showed up a few hours later with a Bonder, some hapless youth with a vague expression and spots. He obediently administered the Vow, breathing heavily through his mouth all the time, before Granger dismissed him with a nod. 

“I truly am sorry,” she said as soon as the door had closed behind him. Her hair seemed to have shrunk a bit, and she looked older than Draco had ever seen her. 

“You're still going to do it though, aren't you?” There was no response; of course she was. “You couldn't wait to get your hands on me, could you?” Draco asked. Now that he had secured the vow, he had time to be angry. 

Granger visibly recoiled – she was so predictable. “I suggested my experiment would come first,” she whispered. “I thought it would be easier on you...”

“Easier? How would losing my mind make it _easier_?” Draco's head finally caught up with his mouth, and a wave of nausea hit him as he realised why that might be the case. What sort of experiments had they lined up for him? “Oh.” He grabbed on to the wall to stop the room from spinning. 

When the world was stationary again he looked up. Granger was still there. One look at his face must have told her exactly how little he wanted to her company, because for once in her life she rose quietly and slipped out without saying a word.

* * *

When he met her again, Draco refused to talk to Granger on principle. 

The hatchet-faced witch who'd taken him to spell-practice in the beginning had knocked on his door again. It had taken him a full three seconds to ensure his face looked as smooth and haughty as his father's ever had, before he'd opened the door with trembling hands. 

He'd hid his hands in the folds of his robes, so he could face Granger looking like he was supremely untroubled by the prospect of having her rummaging through his mind. It only lasted until the other witch had left them alone in the Muggle-looking laboratory and he'd sat down on the odd-looking chair in the middle. He half-expected it to spring chains binding him into place, like the chair allotted to the accused in the Wizengamot. Despite the shiny metalwork and strange wires poking out everywhere, absolutely nothing happened. 

Draco would almost have preferred being chained; then he couldn't have flinched when Granger took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes for the first time since she'd swore not to betray what she found in his memories. 

“Ready?” she asked; he could tell she was trying to sound business-like, but the tip of her wand was shaking. 

“Fuck off.” It had already slipped out when he remembered he shouldn't be speaking to her at all. 

“You know I can't do that.” There was sadness in her voice, which was a fucking laugh – it wasn't her mind and soul at stake here, was it? 

Draco forced himself to keep his head still, looking straight back into her muddy brown eyes. Such a pedestrian colour. He infused the thought with as much spite as possible, knowing she'd hit it first as she delved into his mind without as much as a by your leave. They both knew she had the entire resources of the Ministry at her disposal, and Draco... hadn't.

* * *

“Thank you,” she said as she decanted the silvery substance into a carefully labelled vial, and Draco clutched the hard edges of the armrest to stop himself from cradling his head, trying to reverse what was being done to him. 

“I hope you get bitten by a werewolf on your way home tonight. Before you're laid down with incurable Dragon Pox.” He clicked his mouth shut when he remembered he wasn't speaking to her, but at least he had the satisfaction of seeing her shoulders deflate infinitesimally.

* * *

Apart from the hatchet-faced woman who collected him every morning, Granger was the only person he ever saw. Draco's silent sneering seemed to have no effect on her. She kept up her asinine policy of saying “Thank you,” after every extraction, no doubt trying to assuage her precious Gryffindor conscience. 

He tried to track his memories, in one of the notebooks that had appeared at the same time as the bookshelf in his room. The caution bred into him made him write in code, although Merlin knew why he bothered when his mind was wide open to them. It was impossible. He started with the most important events of his life: finding out he had magic (Draco still remembered the relief on his mother's face), being sorted into Slytherin, getting on the Quidditch team (Granger had shown her complete ignorance that day, incidentally: no one bought their place on the team), his father being arrested... It only got worse from then on. 

When he came back to his room after another session, he'd check his list obsessively. It didn't work – even when Draco added less momentous occasions like becoming a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, or when his mother gave him her own wand to use after he'd lost his own, he couldn't find the gaps. 

He'd never realised before how many memories there are in a quarter of a century. 

There must be other ways. He spent hours examining himself in the mirror, inspecting each scar he could find and trying to remember how he'd got them. When it occurred to him that, while he couldn't see into any other windows in the courtyard, this was no guarantee the reverse applied, he draped the sheet from his bed around him but continued his inspection. 

It was useless. He couldn't be sure if he couldn't remember if the scar on his knee was from Quidditch or from That Night because it hadn't been important at the time, or because it had been taken from him. 

The next time he saw Granger, he stared at her as she completed the now familiar routine before the memory extraction (as she called it in her meticulously detailed research notes). She didn't appear to take much notice before she sat down opposite him. 

“Is there anything you'd like to say, Malfoy? Or are you trying to make me spontaneously combust by glaring at me?” 

“I –“ Asking was difficult, even though she'd given him an opening. “I need to know – Can you tell me which memory it is you've taken? Please,” he added, hating himself for it. 

Granger looked at him like he was a particularly interesting specimen of asphodel. He forced his chin up, returning her gaze with his best attempt at looking disinterested. No matter what was at stake, he refused to fall to pieces in front of Granger. 

“I think I can,” she said eventually. “I'd have to check with my advisor first, but I see why you'd want to know.” 

She was as good as her word – of course she bloody was, she was _Granger_. The next day she told him about a long afternoon in third year, about Crabbe and the rat he'd found lurking under Draco's bed. Draco looked at her blankly: he couldn't remember anything about it, which of course was the whole point of the enterprise from her point of view. 

After that, she told him about every single memory, and Draco did his best to jot down the important bits when he was back in his room. 

It was strange, like watching someone else's life. Some memories were connected to others, so he knew they'd happened. Sometimes, he wasn't sure it was actually his memories. He knew they must be, of course, but he suspected he hadn't thought of them for years. 

There was so much to remember, so many memories of people and places and things and regrets and all too brief moments of triumph, and he couldn't bear to let go of them. To realise that his life had been worth living only as he was losing it.

* * *

Draco was very young, perhaps only four or five: his mother was towering above him, and his stubby little legs had to work hard to keep up with her pace. They were walking on a country road, gravel crunching beneath every step. The sky was wide open, and clouds were flitting across it so quickly Draco could barely follow before they disappeared off the edge of the horizon. 

“Why are the clouds running?” he asked, panting. His mother slowed down a little, and he squeezed her hand even harder. 

“It's the wind,” she told him. The same wind snatched at her hair, tearing wisps out of her tight bun and sending them flying around her head. The dark hood on her coat was also picked up by the wind, bobbing up and down like she'd got an extra head. 

“I like it,” Draco said, turning his head from side to side to feel the edge of the wind across his nose. 

“So do I. Come, let's run, too!” She took him by surprise but he soon caught up, running as fast as he could with his mouth open to swallow gulps of fresh, clear air. 

Suddenly, his legs didn't feel heavy anymore, and he could run faster than he ever had before. The hedges along the side of the road went slightly blurry. He laughed: it came out like the hiccups, from deep inside his chest. 

There was a bubbling sound from his mother: soon she was laughing, too, and he'd never heard her sounding so carefree. They were almost flying down the gravel now, the crunching of their footsteps spread out so far he was only hitting the road with a thud every few seconds. 

He could have stayed in that memory forever.

* * *

He hadn't played Quidditch for years, but his hands still remembered the smooth wood of the broomstick vibrating in his grasp, almost alive. It promised power and speed and winning, and it was better than anything else in the world; better than kissing Pansy behind the Transfiguration shelf in the library, better than his father being pleased with him. 

This, too, would disappear.

* * *

Granger looked like she'd seen a ghost. Even before she told him, Draco knew exactly what she must have seen. He still had enough memories left to piece together the trail of events that sent him here. 

It wasn't Draco who'd purveyed the Soul catchers; it was Lucius. Hermione'd had no idea how well they'd been hidden: since the first war, in fact. Lucius has secreted them away and forgot about them, or else he'd imagined no one would be able to find his hiding place. His father could be remarkably stupid sometimes. 

Draco had never been able to figure out what Lucius had intended to do with half-a-dozen feathery objects, each holding a Muggle soul acquired Gods-knew-how. It must have had something to do with the Dark Lord, like every other misfortune that had befallen the Malfoys in the last decades. 

When the craftsmen had found the hiding place, Draco had acted almost without thinking. Lucius wouldn't have lasted another winter in Azkaban, and Narcissa wouldn't have been far behind. 

Draco had brokered no opposition from his parents. He'd persuaded them he'd get a short sentence, maybe a few years at most. How was he to have known he'd get old Pucey, who didn't believe in second chances (never mind third)? He could still remember his mother's ashen face when the sentence had been read out, and how he'd struggled to keep his face impassive despite facing a lifetime in Azkaban. If this was the last the world would see of him, he was determined to act like a Malfoy. 

He'd fallen to pieces later, in his holding cell. Even now he wasn't sure what he'd chose if it had been up to him. At least this way, it would be over soon. He shivered, and remembered that he wasn't alone. 

“But you could appeal –“ Granger's face was almost as white as his mother's had been in the Wizengamot. 

“No.” Draco cut her off harshly – this was not the time to chase after lost chances. He'd made his choice, and he wasn't going to undo it now.

* * *

He knew when the memory of the night he was branded a Death Eater was removed, because he slept better afterwards than he had for years. The gaps were beginning to be noticeable: he knew what the Dark Mark was, and that he wasn't the only one in his family to be branded like cattle, but he wasn't quite sure why. 

Being a Malfoy was important, he remembered that much. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he'd be the last.

* * *

It was odd, the way memories worked. As they disappeared from his mind, Draco dwelled on things he'd never known were important until he was about to lose them. 

The smell of wet wool and roast potatoes in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, or the wart on the Court Scribe's nose at his first trial. Draco had been petrified then, not quite trusting Potter to bring him off (he couldn't quite remember why) and yet determined not to show it. The night sky at Hogwarts, far from ugly Muggle lights stealing even the starlight. 

You couldn't see the sky in here, no matter how you craned your neck.

* * *

Draco thought there was something different about Granger, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It could all be in his head, of course – how did he know his latest memory of her was from yesterday? 

Then he noticed the sliver of lighter skin around her ring finger. He suddenly remembered the ring: a gold band with a poorly cut diamond, not something Granger would have chosen for herself. It had obviously been chosen and paid for by Weasley. 

“Broken it off with your sweetheart, then?” he asked. “Or did he dump you?” Granger flinched; it almost made him smile. 

“Shut up, Malfoy.” It sounded like she hadn't slept for days. He knew how that felt; some nights he didn't seem to get any sleep at all, just endless hours and minutes of trying to make his mind stop. 

“Forgive me if I have limited sympathy for your sufferings. What happened – did Weasley suddenly decide against a life of being dictated to?” It was testament to his witlessness that he'd lasted so long. 

“It was you, actually.” Once she started, she couldn't stop; the words tumbled out of her mouth, seemingly of their own volition. “He couldn't see why I kept talking about it, why I would be so cut up over someone I didn't even like?” 

Draco didn't particularly like her either, so he didn't demur. 

Granger obligingly kept talking. “To Ron, it's just a job. You do it and then you go home, play Quidditch with your mates and have a few pints. He's no concept of what it's like to be responsible for research that could heal people's minds, or the ethical implications...“ She finally caught up with what she'd been saying. “Sorry. I don't mean to trivialise what you're going through – “ The earnest gaze had stayed with her since Hogwarts and it had never failed to set Draco's teeth on edge. 

“Obviously it's nothing compared to the challenges you're facing on a daily basis.” 

“Well, you did ask,” she muttered and turned to her preparations. “Shall we get started, then?”

* * *

Potter's face. The scorn was still there, the dislike that rose as soon as Draco pictured the unruly black hair and the stupid glasses. He wasn't quite sure why. Something about Quidditch, probably - he definitely remembered racing against Potter on a broom quite recently. There had been flames – but he couldn't recall why. Surely the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch hadn't caught fire?

* * *

He often dreamt of drowning, of slowly drifting downwards in deep dark water. Bubbles of air, bright and light like memories, would slip out of him and rise to the surface. He would watch them floating up as he was dragged inexorably downwards by the current. 

After a while he forgot to fight against it, and simply watched the bubbles float upwards.

* * *

“You look like you've been sat on by a Hippogriff, Granger.” That was putting it mildly. The dark circles under her eyes looked like they'd been etched there, and her hair was in a deplorable condition. His mother wouldn't have been caught dead like that, not even by the house-elves. 

Draco watched her with mild repulsion as her face turned an ugly red colour when she descended into a series of sobs. 

“You- You said the exact same thing yesterday,” she eventually managed to get out. The little part of Draco that remembered that he had a past and a future, albeit an unpleasant one, turned cold. 

“I didn't!” he said, mostly to have something to say. He tried to remember how to breathe. “You're lying,” he squeezed out, and took a pathetic pleasure in seeing her cringe. 

“You did,” she protested, but not vehemently – maybe some of his own dread was showing. Draco tried to make his face look impassive, but he seemed to have forgotten how to move, never mind control tiny facial muscles. 

“You told me...” she started, and even though she'd stopped sobbing tears were tumbling uncontrolled from her eyes. Granger didn't even bother to wipe them away, and Draco watched in horrified fascination as one landed with a splash in one of her precious vials. “You told me you forgive me. That you understand. It's not my decision, not my fault what will happen to you afterwards...” She did notice the snot running from her nose then, but wiped it away with her hand as if it didn't matter that she was making a spectacle of herself. 

Draco must truly be losing his mind if he'd said that. 

“And you – You truly defy belief, Granger. It takes a special kind of nasty to look to the man you're slowly draining of his own memories for absolution. I always knew you didn't have any scruples, but that – ” Granger hadn't had any qualms about sending Umbridge to the Centaurs, had she? And that had been while they were still at school. He should never have – 

But he couldn't remember what he never should have done, only that he'd almost started trusting Granger. The betrayal didn't shake him so much as the realisation that this was it – he'd reached the endpoint. There was no going back. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Draco's mind back together again. 

He distantly became aware of Granger saying something. 

“Draco? Draco, look at me!” 

“Go to hell,” he snarled, but even Draco could hear the defeat in his voice. All he had left was his anger, and he clung to it like a drowning man. “It doesn't matter what I say while you're tearing my mind into pieces. I can never forgive this – never. I will curse you until my last word – but I can't do that, can I?” he asked, and Granger looked like he'd hit her. “You took even that away from me.” 

“It wasn't – “ she started protesting, and suddenly Draco couldn't bear to hear another word from her. 

“I hold you personally responsible,” he told the table holding Granger's collection of vials. “Seeing as you believe in justice and free will and all that. I hope it chokes you, your self-righteousness.” 

He cast one last look on her before he sank in the sea of missing memories, and was satisfied. At least he'd made sure Granger would feel guilty until her dying day.

* * *

There was a tree in the courtyard, full of ripe red apples. He stared at it, content to placidly observe it for hours. 

The young witch with the thick brown hair – how long had she been there with him? He couldn't remember – didn't seem to care about the tree. She was looking at him instead, and there was something familiar about the expression on her face. Grief-struck: the word came to him like a log floating to the surface of a river. It was odd. He didn't know her; he couldn't remember seeing her before. 

The witch didn't say anything. She just stood there breathing heavily, as if she'd been running. She must have left later, because the next time he looked away from the tree she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/113019.html)


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